Try
by Luci-Marlena
Summary: You’re supposed to tell me you don’t love her. Tell me that you don’t have feelings for her. Tell me that you’re not hers and we can do this. Tell me that you can let her go, and I’ll be whatever you want me to be.


**Disclaimer:** All of the characters, concepts, and anything affiliated with the _Twilight_ saga belong to (their rightful owner) Stephanie Meyer. The rest of the work belongs to me and should not be copied in any way, including translations, without my explicit consent.

Major thanks to Flyaway Dove for Beta-ing this.

Set: Sometime after/during BD.

**Leah's POV**

* * *

_Try_

I know why you're here. I can tell.

You're acting the same way Sam was when he came over to tell me that it was over. The same heavy steps weighed down by guilt, the way that your head is bent down in the same shame, how you're waiting for me to start talking, as if I'm the one bringing bad news. It's exactly the same.

Hell, it's even the same reason why you're here.

It's because of _it._ That thing. The "pull."

Imprinting.

I hate that word. I hate having to see what is does to guys, what it will do to you.

You weren't supposed to imprint. You were supposed to be stronger, a fighter, someone different; a real man.

But you're not.

You're just like _him._ _Them_. The brainwashed love struck zombies stuck in this godforsaken town.

After the silence becomes too much for you, you say it; the two words in the entire world that I absolutely hate: "I'm sorry."

I start to shake. How dare you say that! Of all the things to say, you apologize.

It wouldn't bother me so much if it didn't sound so forced and insincere. We all know how "happy" all of you are. All the imprinted men are in such bliss with their imprints; they "complete" you. You're not sorry that you found your better half. No, you're just as '_happy' _and delusional as the rest of them.

I glare at you and spit out, "Don't you ever fucking say that to me again! I know why you're here! Just fucking tell me like a man and leave!"

Getting pissed off, you shout, "What do you want me to say? Jesus, just tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it!"

"You're supposed to tell me the truth!" I yell at you.

You're supposed to tell me you don't love her. Tell me that you don't have feelings for her. Tell me that you're not hers and we can do this. Tell me that you can let her go, and I'll be whatever you want me to be.

Please, just tell me it's not true.

Tell me that you're not one of them.

That you're not hers, but that you're still you, a free man.

Tell me that you love me. That what we have, (had?), is real. Just tell me that the three years that we were together, where I fell for you, were not ruined by one look into _her_ eyes. Please, tell me you haven't –

"I imprinted."

I hang my head in defeat. You're gone, the real you, the free you. Now, you're just a shell of your old self. Whatever shewants, you make yourself fit the role. You'll change. You'll compromise yourself to be what she wants. You'll never be the man you wanted to be. No, now you're whatever she wants.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Leah. Really, it's just," you trail off.

I know what you're going to say. Uncontrollable.

And I understand that it's uncontrollable. The feelings you're forced to have, how you're forced to be beside her, how you feel compelled to always make her happy, you can't control it. "I know," I tell him.

He looks up at me, shocked.

I continue. "I know that there's this feeling that tells you to care for her and protect her."

But you can fight it. You can fight the feeling, the urge, the addiction. Addicts have done it before, and that's exactly what you are: an addict. She's your drug. You need her to be able to feel happiness, you need her to get you through the day. Then again, an alcoholic says that he needs that drink to be able to survive. He doesn't really need the drink; he just thinks he needs it.

"The same feelings have existed between us, too; the "pull" just isn't the same. What we have is love; pure, unadulterated love, and you're not even going to try and fight for it. You're not even going to try and fight for us."

"It's too strong! I'm not sure if I can. I don't think I can fight it, Lee," you whimper.

"You haven't even tried!" I screech.

You can tell me anything. Tell me that I'm a bitch, that I'm a bitter harpy, that both packs hate me and my snarky comments, tell me that the leeches have more feelings and more compassion than I do. Tell me anything, but whatever you do, don't tell me that you love her, that you want her, that you can't live without her.

Don't tell me that you can't even try to fight it.

"Try. All I'm asking you is to try," I plead.

"Okay, okay. For you, I'll try."

You and I both hear the impossibility when you say it, like it's an effort even saying the word, _"try."_


End file.
